


Ghost

by Brisingamen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Compliant, Dead People, I love Robb he's my son, Minor Jon Snow/Ygritte, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brisingamen/pseuds/Brisingamen
Summary: When Jon was killed, he got to meet everyone he loves.





	Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy ;)

The blades that cut through him left his body cold like ice. It radiated throughout his body, and the wind that should have felt freezing didn't make him shiver the littlest.

He was alone, though he shouldn't have been. 

He was not at Castle Black any longer, though he doesn't remember leaving.

“ _Ghost_ ,” he whispered, unaware of why, but the name had lingered on his tongue.

He bit his cheek when he pushed himself off the ground, his body weak but feeling no ache in his muscles. The sky around him was grey, and the rocky ground harsh and covered with snow.

Jon observed his surroundings, and noted he has not been there before. There was no life near him, yet the lands he stood on were not unforgiving.

He tried to recall what had happened, and all he saw was Bowen Marsh's tears and .. his friends'.

_For the watch._

The words made him feel lonely.

In the distance he could see fog arising, and he decided to investigate, walking off in the direction, stones and snow crunching under his feet. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the wind, trying not to delve on the implications of his weak memories, instead he tried moving forward.

Perhaps someone had brought him here.

As if on cue, Jon could see something dark amidst the fog, a person perhaps. He had seen enough to be wary of strangers, especially in a strange land, but Jon felt his head be hazy, as if he had drunk a beer too many. 

Foul tasting beers on that.

As he got closer he could see a figure hunched over by a rock, holding its sides as if it was in pain. In the snow lied Qhorin halfhand, cradling the wound Jon had caused with Longclaw.

The man clad in black lifted his gaze, and Jon could feel fear strike him in the heart. He hesitated in his step, his own heart beating hard in his ribcage from the fear.

Has he become one of them, _one of the others_?

“Remember who and what you are..” Qhorin coughed, as he had said before. _You're dead_ , Jon thought to himself, unable to act. But Qhorin didn't sound like he was dead, and the wounds had long stopped bleeding.

“..you're a man of the Night's watch, not a wildling or Lord of Winterfell.”

 _Winterfell_. Guilt washed over Jon, this man had sacrificed himself, and Jon killed many to protect the Night's watch, and now he was deserting to..

“You're dead,” Jon exclaimed. _I killed you. You asked me to kill you._

“And so are you.”

Jon in horror looked down at his own body, and true to Qhorin's words ghastly wounds decorated his body. His leather clothing was torn, stained with his own blood, and underneath Jon saw his own flesh torn and ripped.

He looked back up at Qhorin in horror.

Bowen Marsh, his men, had done this.

_Because he had fallen for Ramsay's taunts?_

Or was it because Jon wanted to seize the opportunity to finally rule Winterfell?

It painted his insides with disgust, and the horror of his own demise made him panic.

He turned around and bolted away from Qhorin in fear of himself. He didn't want to face the man that gave up his life for Jon to save the Night's Watch, the man who Jon had driven his sword into only to receive the same treatment himself. Who had now abandoned Castle Black.

_Stick them with the pointy end._

Jon cried and the tears stung like ice on his cheeks. He had not cried since he was still in Winterfell. He was selfish.

His honour and kindness was nothing like Robb's.. or father's.

Whose kindness he had tried to protect, the name Stark that he thought Ramsay had tainted.

Abandoning the brother's of the Night's watch instead. Qhorin's disappointed gaze burned at his back.

He covered a lot of distance, and though he felt tired his legs never stopped from taking the next step. His mind was buzzing and he acted as if something had taken over his body.

He didn't have a destination, all he wanted was some rest. For it all to end.

Jon reached a river as black as his clothing, its waves lulling the rough rocks of the shore, and the fog was thick as clouds and dancing around the ripples where the water was alive.

In the distance, someone was disturbing the river, slow, shallow paddling. A boat emerged from the fog, a lone man standing in it, guiding the wooden boat with a long stick.

The river felt unwelcome and hostile, nevertheless the ominous man who paid no heed to Jon. 

“You need to follow me, Jon,” the man said, voice filled with salt and missing a tooth too many. The boat broke the silence around when it hit shore, scraping against the rough stones and ice, the sound bouncing on the surface of the river.

Jon hesitated, suspicious of the stranger, but looking around him he knew there was nothing here for him. As if fate was guiding him, and not his will, he climbed onto the cold, wet boat and sat down by the fore. 

He was lost and felt like it wouldn't matter if the man was friend or foe.

The man said nothing as he pushed the stick between a rock and freed the boat from the shore, the waves rocking the small boat. Jon felt himself grip the wooden frame of the boat, the black, open waters seemingly waited to consume him.

Neither of them had anything to say. Jon studied the ferryman who was aged with seawater and rough to his skin. He wore all leather, and something about his sullen expression reminded Jon of Theon.

Jon's clench on the boat tightened as something emerged from the black water, and the boat rocked as it hit it while passing by. A white body, sickly and bloated from the moisture. Jon looked at the ferryman in terror, who seemed to not notice the bumps in their road.

Another emerged.

“Who are these _things_?” Jon asked, horrified,

“The undead.” Short and on point was the answer, and Jon didn't enjoy this place.

It must have been a dream. Jon felt it difficult to swallow.

These were his enemies.

They neared a small dock, worn out from winter and summer and winter. The bodies were gone, and it looked more peaceful than Jon wanted it to. The boat hit the dock and Jon climbed out of the boat, looking back at the ferryman, who paid Jon no interest and pushed the boat away. Jon gazed at the boat until it disappeared in the fog. 

The old wood creaked and it vibrated through the water as Jon finally departed from the river. The scenery was different on this side of the river. Instead of a forest of rocks there were trees sheltering Jon from the wind. Some had leaves, other looked dead. The ground was covered in snow.

Jon wished nothing more than for Ghost to appear from the shadows, lead him through and offer him safety.

Jon's beating heart had stilled, and he walked into the forest to find shelter and rest his thoughts. He readied his long black coat so he could sit down on the chilly ground, and he cradled the wounds of his as if they were newborn.

He stank like death, and his clothes were heavy with blood.

His mind kept racing, with the undead being here, was this a mission he had been sent to? Had the red priestess done this?

No, she talked about fire and long nights. This place was.. was..

He let the thought escape as he prodded at his wounds, warm steam rising from the flesh, and he pulled the sharp edges away from each other to inspect the damage.

It didn't hurt but the sight made him ill nonetheless.

He was interrupted by crows shrieking and flying away from the tree tops. He was quick to reach for his Longclaw, though his fingers felt clumsy, still. 

The memory of his Longclaw stuck in its hilt made his head spin. He got quickly up and managed to unsheathe his sword, though he never remembered his sword feeling this heavy and uncomfortable.

A human, hugging the tree from which she emerged from behind, and he believed it was a trick on his eyes. 

Ygritte, and Jon felt warm.

She was naked, pale and white but her hair red, kissed by fire. She smiled at him, the smile he remembered, and for the first time his body felt vigorous, putting Longclaw back into its sheath and sprinting up to her beautiful form.

He embraced her, and in his arms she felt like everything he ever needed. She felt like love. She was leaning in to him, and her gaze was playful.

He wasn't much of a romantic, less a talker. He found no words to say, and not even the words _I miss you_ could surface.

“Kiss me, _Jon Snow_ ,” she purred, half mocking and half seducing, and Jon obliged, entranced by her beauty and the memory of her drove him insane.

Perhaps he was kissing death, but if this was death he would not complain. Her kiss felt like fire and life, like the first flower in spring.

They pulled away, and he studied her eyes, and wondered if he had ever appreciated her as much as now.

“This must be a dream,” he finally found the strength to say, and her lips turned into a sly smile. 

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” Ygritte laughed. Her laughter resonated within his body with warmth, her remark was as playful as a pup's bite. He willed himself to smile for the first time in who knows, and it may have looked crooked and stiff but it felt good. He wanted to kiss her again. 

Ygritte dodged him like a doe, laughing at him, staring at him with lust. She slithered her way out of his grip and took off further into the woods. He didn't have the strength to call out for her, but he chased her into the darkness. 

She kept stealing glances backwards, still smiling, her red hair turning more grey by every time the wind howled through the sleeping woods. She kept gaining distance, and Jon didn't want to play her games. He was tired of running and chasing and fighting, and he was hoping she was leading him somewhere that felt like home. The darker the forest got, the further away her laughter got, the more he felt like this was just a cruel joke. 

The forest got thicker and the crows kept laughing with her, and the icy wind had a bite to it, cutting his skin. His wounds were steaming less, and the blood on his clothes was getting heaver.

The laughter stopped, and with a panic Jon mustered all his remaining strength to run faster, to catch her.

He found her near a weirwood tree, and though he felt like his legs were going to give in and his lungs were sinking, she looked like she hadn't lifted a finger. _It didn't matter_ , he thought, this could not be a fabric of his dreams. He was with Ygritte again. 

But as he approached and she turned around, she was pierced by arrows. His wounds were dry and cold, but her fair skin was being painted with red. She was smoldering, and the heat was melting the snow around her.

“ _You know nothing_ ,” he could hear the wind howl, and his insides churned as if he was stabbed again. The wind blew her to ashes, and carried her away.

 _No_ , he cried, _I belong with you._

His eyes followed the dancing ash until it disappeared in the dark woods. He fell down, clutching onto the watching tree, exhausted to the brink of breaking.

The wind kept howling and he swore he heard her, but the trees kept creaking and leaves kept rustling to tell him it was just a cruel joke by the gods.

Even the weirwood tree seemed to laugh at him.

The wind took down and the falling snow blanketed him, as he listened to the gods whisper through the weirwood.

He felt stares from the direction Ygritte disappeared in, and with the fast beating of his heart he turned his head in hope of..

Panting came from the large animal, as if it was hunting him, and Jon's spine felt cold and his throat got dry as he saw the wolf had no head. Matted fur covered in dark, dry, blood, much like his black coat. 

It didn't move and neither did Jon. He held his breath for a long time, and the world fell silent around him. All he heard was the huffs coming from the wolf, even the gods were silent.

It turned around and took a few strides, and only then did he realize. He had seen this wolf before.

Ghost wasn't here, _ghost wasn't dead_ , and Jon called out for the companion he found himself with.

“Grey Wind,” he called, voice raspy from the cold. His throat was burning but his wounds were numb. He got up, sensing the wolf's energy as if it was his own. _There is something out there, waiting for me to be seen. Grey wind knows._

The chase was calm, and much like Ygritte, the more he chased the more Grey Wind picked up his pace. They never ran though, and the anticipation in Jon kept building. The woods remained the same, quiet, lonely, sleeping. The snow under his feet was silent, even if he found himself treading deeper and deeper.

In the distance he heard muffled singing, laughter, and he could see a large building surface between the trees.

A village, he thought to himself, curious as to where Grey Wind was leading him. The wolf kept getting more anxious as they neared the dark building, the panting turning to whines.

As the trees cleared Jon realized this was no village, but a large longhall that was aged and weary. It featured no windows, its walls strongly built. The doors at the end were decorative, and Grey Wind picked up the pace and started to howl, reaching the doors and scratching at them in distress.

Jon froze when he heard the laughter.

_King in the North, King in the North, King in the North..._

The noise almost got deafening in his ears the closer he got to the doors. Grey Wind's howls were like blood curdling screams and his heart was now again thumping in his ears.

A moment to collect himself before he opened the doors, and the sight before him brought him to his knees and knocked the wind out of him.

The chanting stopped as he called out Robb's name.

The auburn hair with snowflakes melting in them, the image he remembered so well, dreamed of, was gone.

Instead at the end of the longhall sat a large figure, clad like Jon remembers in leather and fur, with a wolf's head sown to it.

Alone in the longhall, but a feast served for a family. The large headless beast ran up to its master, sniffed and paced around until it laid to rest by its feet.

The longhall was dark except for the torches lit behind Robb's throne. Jon smelled the boar, the savory pies with eggs and fish, the bread that is all laid before him. He smelled the beer that he only now remembered Robb was fond off.

He smelled the carcass that was in place of Robb's head, and he saw the arrows sticking out of him.

“What did they do to you?” Jon cried out, finding no strength to gather himself and move. Robb always had that effect on him, overbearing power and authority

Robb never answered the question, and in a fleeting moment Jon thought Robb didn't know what had been done to him.

“I should have been there with you,” Jon said. He remembered when he tried to desert the Night's Watch, as he had done now in greed of _this_ , but returned, abandoning Robb, his family, the man he looked up to. He remembered how ungrateful he was of his brother, wanted everything his brother had.

He wanted to go back and change it all.

It was silent for a long time, until the powerful voice of Robb filled the hall. It felt like it had been an eternity since he had heard Robb speak. 

“You would have died because of my foolishness.” Robb's voice was just and courageous, fit for a king, and the mockery he heard before, _King in the North_ , echoed through the walls. “Well I guess it doesn't matter, you're dead anyways.”

The laughter Robb let out was rich and kind and filled the hall, vibrating through Jon's core. It made him feel weak, like it always had, but it was a weakness he longed for. 

Jon might have even felt at home if it wasn't for the gruesome wolf's head that kept lifelessly grinning at him as Robb laughed. Instead horror filled his heart. 

Silenced filled the hall that seemed to be growing in length, darkening. _Lord of winterfell_ , a title Jon had always selfishly dreamed of, was out of place as the lord himself sat with a rotting wolf's head, alone and friendless, betrayed and stabbed in the back.

Jon felt awful. 

“You were a great man,” Jon confessed, “why are you punished like this?” 

“I have things unfinished, Jon,” Robb spoke, with the calamity Jon remembers he always had. “Mother left to attend to it. When she succeeds we can all be a family again.”

The word left Jon feeling lonely. He didn't belong here. He wanted to, he felt natural besides his brother, it was all he had wanted since a boy. But Catelyn was not his mother and would never be, and Jon wanted to tell Robb many things.

Apologies for being jealous and difficult, apologies for deserting him when war came, _how he had missed him.._

But he had to leave. He needed to find Ygritte. She was his and he was hers, and she was his home.

He forced himself off the cold stone floor.

“We are not different, betrayed and murdered by our allies,” Robb spoke, sounding awfully lonely, and Jon grit his teeth for wanting to leave.

They thought they had honour, and were just, and one was sitting with a wolf's head grinning and the other cut open by friends.

“I need to leave,” Jon announced, the atmosphere of the hall almost crushing him.

He spun around, the heavy doors being closed. He could feel the wolf's eyes look pitiful, but he didn't dare look behind him.

He was a coward, and the light seeping through the cracks of the doors was alluring. More so than the fate hid brother had endured, and Jon couldn't bear to look at him.

“Jon!” he heard Robb call out, voice louder than ever, and the way Robb used to speak like a king was not present in his tone. Robb's voice trembled, and he called out Jon's name again.

“ _Don't leave me_!”

Robb's scared voice reminded Jon of how young his brother really was, he didn't sound like a king, more like a lost boy. Jon wanted to turn around, hold Robb, but he knew what sight awaited him if he did.

Jon sprinted off, away from Robb and his feelings, and opened the door to be thrown into a sunny land he had never witnessed before. A crowd was cheering but he couldn't see it.

The gulls were singing and the walls were bright, his surroundings were something like a dreamlike fog. In the center of the crowd's cheering he saw a hunched over figure, and recognized the attire.

“Lord Eddard,” Jon breathed, frozen in position.

The figure slowly turned, and Jon couldn't breathe as he saw his father clutching his own sewered head.

The man he admired, and had wanted acceptance of his whole life, his own father and blood, butchered like cattle and laid in front of Jon.

It was a cruel punishment. The gods were cruel, and he could hear Ygritte in his head. _You know nothing._

“I promised the next time we'd meet, we'd talk about your mother.”

Jon could breathe again. His eyes were fixed on the talking head, covered with dirt and cheeks hollowed from starvation.

“Her name was....” 

The moment was disrupted by someone grabbing Jon by the arm, making Jon lose his composure and letting the force drag him away like the waves does to boats.

“No!” Jon wailed, he was exhausted and tormented, “father!”

Ned's head seemed disappointed, and shut its mouth as the scenery around him faded.

He was back in the forest, and he felt like the wounds were reopening, hurting, flowing with embers and life. 

It was the ferryman, and Jon howled out in pain as his attempts to escape was retributed with a fierce grip.

The place he was in was torture, yet he wanted to remain. He didn't feel at home but he wanted Ned, Robb, Ygritte.. 

He was being forced into water, and his tired form could do nothing to protest as his head sunk under.

He felt something cold around him, and he shouted into the water as he felt the corpses he had seen earlier close in around him.

The water filled his lungs, and burned, and burned, and burned..

It was like he was born again, learning how to breathe again, and he woke up with a scream and a burning sensation.

And all he remembered was the cold of the knives thrust into him, and Ygritte's laughter, a wolf's head and Ned's disappointed expression..

“ _Ghost_.”

**Author's Note:**

> rip me lol.


End file.
